Blackpowder Dominance
by T.R. Hunter
Summary: DA2 Spoilers… sort of. Where did Anders get that recipe? And what did he have to give for it? A bit of a spoof… with the usual wild sex… actually very wild this time, so if you're under 18 or just plain prudish, go elsewhere.
1. Chapter 1

**[DA2 Spoilers! Mature - over 18 only please.]**

**[This one's for dragon_chewtoy, who kept me writing today. A little spoof just for fun… and because my mind works that way. No, things would not have happened this way—which is rather the whole point of the exercise.]**

**[The question is, where did Anders get that recipe? And how? What did it cost him?]**

Blackpowder Dominance Chapter 1

Fenris was skittish, looking over his shoulder suspiciously and peering into every corner. If he were caught, he would never live down the ridicule. To meet a mage, and not just any mage, but _that_ mage, just because his body craved it. It was a weakness he knew, but one he couldn't resist.

The site for the tryst was Darktown, of course. Literally and poetically the best place for clandestine love affairs. A hidden office in an abandoned warehouse. It was likely to be uncomfortable, but perhaps that would help to assuage some of the guilt that he knew he would feel. He hated mages, but that lean form, it spoke to him—and the magic.

He sidled towards the narrow door, placing his back against the frame and peeking around, relieved to find the tiny room empty. The late afternoon sunlight shone through a high window, playing in the dust and spotlighting the filthy floor.

He'd rolled some blankets into a pack before leaving and added a whisk broom, a candle stick and a bottle of wine. Shoving some of the debris away with his foot, he carefully undid the bindings, removing the small broom, and set to sweeping as best he could. He supposed that the mage could wave a hand and redecorate, but he wanted all that magic for himself—whatever he could do in a mundane way to save mana he would.

As he completed his task and spread the blankets, there was a shimmer in the corner of the room and a soft chuckle. A figure appeared, tall, blond, clad in a worn robe. Fenris had dropped into a crouch at the slight movement. He now straightened, scowling. "You've been watching me this whole time?" he snarled.

"Perhaps not the _whole_ time," came the mocking reply, "but long enough to be glad you didn't bring a broom with a longer handle. A delightful display. Did you know you have a small hole in the seat of those tights?"

Fenris reached back self-consciously, feeling for the hole. "A bit lower. Hummm, right there." As he spoke, the mage came forward and touched the elf's arm, very deliberately grasping the lyrium burn. Fenris gasped as desire shot through the network lacing his body.

Varric had called him broody, but the dwarf could have no idea of the intense frustration that was his daily companion. Since receiving the burns he and found his sexual appetites all consuming and his ability to satisfy them nil. Even self-pleasuring was denied him; despite his need, he could not find release—until he'd been touched by the mage.

It had happened by accident, of course. He'd been staggered at the end of a battle, and Anders had reached out to steady him. Before Fenris could shrug off the offending hold, the pattern of lyrium had sent shock waves through him. The orgasm was simultaneous with the arousal, it had been so long, and he was intensely grateful for the length of his jerkin covering his shame.

As he observed the reaction, his eyes sparkling, the mage moved in closer, gently stroking the elf's snowy hair. When his hand moved to the back of that long neck, Fenris growled, "I'm here for one purpose and it's not romance. Leave off!"

Stepping back, Anders wordlessly indicated the bottle and candle stick standing next to the blankets. He said, "Forgive me for misinterpreting. You seem to have gone to some trouble. You know I could make things more comfortable for us?"

"No!" Fenris shot back. "The magic, no, don't use if for that…"

Anders laughed and retorted, "Ah, so greedy, are we? You must have it all? Not even a bit for my own ease?"

The elf continued to snarl, pacing about the small room and swiping at invisible annoyances. "Why torment me further?" he complained. "You know I hate you and everything you stand for. You know the pain it causes me to come to you like this. And you know the need that compels it as well as the gratitude I have that you would indulge me."

That was the delicious irony that Anders fed on. Each time Fenris grumbled about mages, tried to sway Hawke, Anders only had to give him a look from the corner of his eye and this night and others like it would be remembered. He'd been amused the first time to see a slight coloring and nervous shifting of feet as Fenris tried to continue his argument. His advocacy for the Circle had dropped off some after that, but not completely, for which Anders was grateful since the elf's discomfort was so delicious.

Hitching up his garments, the mage lay back on the blankets, propping his back in the corner for the best view. He wore leggings for warmth, but they were not full pants and only extended over the sides of his hips to tie at a silk band around his waist. The gown was sufficient to cover, and the leggings left him quite bare front and rear when the robe was raised, a convenient compromise. He indicated his erect cock, saying, "The first part of the payment please."

Fenris ground his teeth and looked away. The first part and the part he hated. Best to get it over with perhaps, so that his on enjoyment would not be sullied.

Turning his back, the elf released the clasps on his jerkin slowly, trying to postpone the moment when he would be naked and vulnerable. He undid his wide belt, slinging to towards the wall in a temper, then roughly pulled down the tights, holding them in front of his eyes for a moment to assess the worn hole between the thighs. Finally, with no more excuses, he turned and faced his tormentor. He was erect and annoyed that he had no control over that reaction. He would so much rather of stood there flaccid and blasé, but his damn cock jumped and his burns pulsed betraying his arousal.

He knelt, his hand hesitant, then struck, grabbing the thick shaft tightly as he would if trying to capture a dangerous serpent. The mage gasped, allowing the vocalization to transform into a sigh. It was always this way with Fenris, too much pressure at first and sharp pain that soon became exquisite pleasure. He gestured to the elf's head, then brought his finger down in an explicit command.

Steeling himself, Fenris lowered his mouth and let his long tongue snake out, wrapping it around the rosy head. At least the mage was clean, smelling of sweet herbs, it could have been worse he supposed.

When Anders had first proposed this arrangement, Fenris' two payments in exchange for his salvation, he'd protested that he preferred women, abhorred the idea of sex with men. Of course that was theoretical, since he could remember nothing before the night of the burns and since he'd been unable to find release except through Anders' magic since. Somewhere in that lost pit of his mind, he felt that he _should_ like woman and _should_ object to such activities with men, but he was more dispassionate than any eunuch—he had no feelings for anyone else, just his own burning need which could not be satisfied by natural means.

Anders tapped on the top of his head and he reluctantly bent to his task, opening his mouth as wide as possible to engulf the smooth rod. Maybe he could speed things along, just get it over with. He forced his lips down to meet his hand, fighting his gag reflect and trying to get air through his nose. As he sped up, moving hand and mouth in unison, the mage reached out and caught him by the hair on the back on his head, jerking roughly.

"Uh huh," Anders panted, "you'll not cheat me that way. Slowly, carefully, or I leave now. Do you understand?" The elf nodded, the tip of the penis still in his mouth. Oh to have the courage to bite down, to force his teeth together and end the charade. He could almost taste the blood spurting into his throat, hear the cry of dismay when the mage realized the loss of his most prized portion. It was a vain fantasy though; Fenris would not trade his only release for revenge, no matter how sweet.

As he moved his tongue about the shaft, lapping and sucking, Anders' hand played idly with his hair, occasionally moving over to stroke a pointed ear. These little intimacies were worse than the sex, more personal and more intrusive. He had reached that point in the play where he felt more a slave than he ever had in Tevinter, penned by his own desires and captured by the only one who knew his secret and could satisfy his need.

The mage swelled and thumped within the elf's grasp, lips twitching as soft murmurs escaped. Anders loved watching, always, but it was especially pleasurable to see the drama of Fenris ministrations. The conflict within him played out in his every movement. He could barely bring himself to perform the act, yet he remained hard throughout, his burns pulsing. And he was gaining expertise each time they met. Perhaps Anders would allow these assignation to continue even after he had achieved his purpose.

His hand wandered down from Fenris' head to lightly stroke his back, following a tendril of lyrium. It was the signal that he was ready for the elf to take him to climax and Fenris sighed in relief, quickening his pace and squeezing harder. His other hand came up and cupped the weighty balls, rolling them across his fingers. Anything he could do to hurry the ejaculation that would signal his own release, he would.

Anders struggled to keep his eyes open, to watch that bobbing white head and see himself appear and disappear within that lush mouth. He'd been fascinated by the elf's lips from the first; thick and soft, their blush a contrast to the harsh masculinity of his face. To see those same lips wrapped around his cock, moving rapidly up and down, stimulated him almost as much as the sensation.

Unable to resist further, he arched his back and moaned. Fenris felt the hot liquid hit the back of his throat and struggled to keep from retching. He knew that he would be expected to swallow every drop or be denied the full measure of what the mage could give. His eyes were tearing as he fought to gulp down the thick mess.

Then it was over, Anders almost unconscious in the small death and Fenris humiliated and angry, but relieved to have made it through one more torturous session. He sat up, spat, and wiped his mouth, trying to push away the taste. He reached for the bottle and wished he'd brought two. By the time it was uncorked and Fenris had taken two mighty swigs, Anders was back among the living. He reached for the wine, prying it from the elf's fingers, and turned it up to his mouth, his throat working to Fenris' dismay as he watched fully half its bounty disappear.

When Anders handed the bottle back, it was once again full. Fenris growled at the waste of magic, but at least it was a use he could appreciate. He took one more sip and set the drink aside, standing. He had found that standing was best. There were no burns on the soles of his feet, thank the Maker. When the magic activated the lyrium, or whatever it did, having the veins touch any other surface was painful and distracting.

Anders rose, allowing his robe to fall back in place, and slowly circled the quivering elf, saying, "What shall it be this time? Where shall we begin? Do you have an opinion or shall I choose?" It was a cruel question since Fenris was breathing so hard in need and anticipation that he could not speak. He did manage to growl, which elicited a quiet laugh from the mage.

The tall blond stood back and considered, enjoying his view. Fenris was like no other creature, something unique within himself. The experiment that had produced him had been repeated, of course, but all of the other subjects had died. Only this frail elf had been strong enough to withstand the agony.

Suddenly he reached out and touched a spot just above the clavicle. The elf's head shot back and the lyrium pattern pulsed. Not the white heat that it evinced in battle, but a slower pulsing of all colors, one following the other. Anders has learned that they began at the cooler end of the spectrum and worked their way to hot crimson as Fenris got closer to his unusual climax. The color variation was a nice gauge that allowed the mage to use every bit of his magic… if he wished. Sometimes he was generous and gave it all, but at others it pleased him to hold back, and to then tease by using the excess for extra candles, better wine or perhaps a small snack, something that never failed to enrage the elf.

He strolled to the back, his hand on his chin, considering. Fenris had been good today, and it may be the last time, so as a special treat he would be slow and thorough, possibly see if the power of his magic could outlast the elf's impressive endurance. Rather than touch another vein, he stroked an ear, working his fingers around the whorls and laughing when Fenris snarled in complaint.

Showing a sliver of pity, he touched a spot on the back of the elf's arm, running his finger up until the light changed from deepest indigo to a dark violet then stood back as it started to fade.

He moved to the front and stroked the scrolling that wound from navel to rib, laughing as the elf's long arched cock swelled and throbbed. Snapping his viridian eyes open and fixing them on the mage, Fenris breathed, "I… hate… you!" then moaned and let his head fall back, eyes once more closed in ecstasy.

The lyrium design was glowing a bright blue and tending towards aqua. Time, perhaps, to move things along. Playing the elf like he would a rare instrument, plucking lightly here, pressing firmly there, Anders moved the light from green to a yellow tinted with the faintest blush of orange. He wished that he could know what the elf was feeling, but he had no hope of experiencing it, even vicariously—it was not something Fenris would ever talk about.

The elf was staggering now, spreading his stance to maintain his footing, and panting so hard his chest heaved alarmingly. Anders reached down and lightly touched one of the lyrium tendrils climbing that pale penis, causing a bright orange flare, before stepping back and letting things settle for a moment.

When Fenris' breathing quieted to the point that he was only gasping, the mage said, "Perhaps you've had enough for this evening," and started to turn away.

The hand on his shoulder was iron hard and the nails dug in between bone and muscle. "If you leave now, I _swear_ I will kill you," was the elf's impassioned response.

It had only been a bluff. Coolly the mage turned back and said, "And you would give up all this?" as he ran a hand down the unmarked cheek then touched the very top of the design where it impinged onto Fenris chin.

The elf howled and the pattern pulsed fiery orange. He lurched and almost fell, Anders catching him by his hair, one of the few safe places to touch, to steady him. When Fenris could again stand on his own, the mage asked, "Are you ready?"

"I've been ready for a thousand years, damn you!" Fenris breathed in harsh reply. "Do it or let me die, I cannot stand any more."

Nodding, Anders moved to the side, holding up his two forefingers and rubbing them lightly to draw the magic. He would give all tonight and perhaps the elf would get his wish, perhaps he would die of a surfeit of pleasure.

His left hand went to the front, just before the elf's navel and the right to the back to hover above the dimple topping his hard buttocks. The fingers turned to face each other and electricity crackled between them. The were drawn together as if by a magnet, moving slowly towards their targets.

When the two fingers touched, each at the thickest part of the lyrium pattern, front and back, Fenris screamed, a sound that echoed throughout the empty warehouse. His pattern blazed bright scarlet, then pulsed between the orangey red and deepest maroon as the scream went on and on. Anders held his fingers in place, allowing the last of his reserves to flow into the elf, wondering what the result would be.

His body as rigid as his cock, Fenris exploded in orgasm, drenching the mage's hand. Still Anders held position and still he fed magic into the delicate frame. He could smell brimstone and felt the heat, almost too much to endure, as the room was lit by the strobing glow of the elf's rapture.

Finally he felt the his magic ebbing, the last trickles flowing from his fingers. Removing them carefully, he struggled to the blanket and collapsed there, watching Fenris carefully. The light was fading and he could see a fluttering of eyelids. The elf's chest didn't seem to be moving, but then he gave a huge sigh and started to pant softly. His eyes slowly opened, looking slightly dazed, and he shook his head hard.

In the next moment he was on the mage, pushing his mouth onto Anders' astonished lips and clawing at the back of his head. Of the outcomes that the mage envisioned for his little experiment, a kiss from the hostile elf was not among them. He opened his mouth to the insistent probing, wrapped his arms around the narrow back, and lay back to enjoy.

When Fenris finally came up for air, he snarled, "If anyone, _anyone_, but especially Hawke, ever hears of this I will make you dead very very slowly." As pillow talk it was unique, but Anders didn't doubt its sincerity. Sitting up and cradling the scowling elf in his arm, he reached for the bottle.

[next chapter… the second part of Fenris' payment]


	2. Chapter 2

[Not for anyone under 18, and very possibly not for a lot of you old folks, so you've been warned. DA2 spoilers, sorta… it's not a terribly serious story, although it is fairly dark.]

Fenris shook off the enclosing arm and squirmed to the other side of the blanket, snagging the bottle on his way. As he gulped, Anders protested, "Wait! I don't have magic left to make more, that needs to last us the rest of the night." Defiantly, the elf kept drinking until he could take in no more, then sat the sadly depleted bottle beside him and away form the mage.

"Bring your own wine next time," he grunted.

Anders smiled and nodded. He was actually beginning to like this sour elf. But enough of pleasure, the next several hours would see his purpose in luring Fenris here satisfied.

"So, where were we?" he began. I think you were explaining the fine points of declension if memory serves," and his memory always served. It was one of the few advantages of being raised in the Circle. He had a good memory as a child, but the intense training over many years had made it near eidetic.

The elf spat Qunari words at him rapidly, and the mage pulled back in faux horror. "My mother did no such thing!" he shot back.

Fenris nodded, saying, "Yes, if you got that, you are doing well. The syntax was rather convoluted, even for a Qunari. There is not much more I can teach you, unless you wish to move to philosophical discussion of the Qun."

It was as Anders suspected, he'd reached the limits of the elf's knowledge, at least his knowledge of the language. Considering, he replied, "Yes, a philosophical discussion, entirely in Qunari, may be exactly what I need tonight."

At first, Fenris had questioned why the mage wanted to learn the language of the giants from the north, but Anders had firmly refused to answer his questions and finally threatened to renege on their agreement altogether if the questioning continued. Since this was something Fenris could not risk, he simply dropped his queries, but continued to wonder.

At least the mage was a good student, quiet and dedicated, only asking thoughtful and intelligent questions. If he had been asked to tutor a dullard, he wasn't sure even his own burning need could have made him see it through.

The light was growing ever dimmer, so he struck flint to steel and lit their one candle. Their discussions continued deep into the night. Around midnight, his powers partially restored, Anders replenished the wine and provided a small round of creamy cheese. The alcohol and the intricate discussion both mellowed and tired the elf. Towards morning he fell asleep nestled against Anders' leg and looking very much like a small child after an exciting and exhausting day.

Hawke wouldn't be pleased when they both missed the late morning briefing at the Hanged Man, but Anders was beyond caring about the trivial jobs the group had been accepting lately. The coin was good for supporting his clinic, but beyond that, looking for lost puppies and maintaining Hawke's business interests was hardly satisfying. Let him wonder. It would also be amusing to listen to the others speculate about whether he and Fenris were together or not. The elf, of course, would emphatically deny any connection. Anders would simply smile enigmatically. He lay back and closed his eyes, lazing in the warmth of the early morning light flooding the small room.

When he awoke a few hours later, Fenris was gone. He'd left the blankets, but taken the rest of his supplies. As Anders folded the worn grey wool, he wished something identifiable had been left instead. It would be delicious to have something that clearly belonged to Fenris that he could leave casually lying around the clinic.

Thinking of the clinic, he decided to check in there before venturing to the docks. He could find an urchin to carry a message to Hawke. Although he didn't mind pissing the man off, the job was the best he was likely to get, apostates not being in great demand. Keeping a fine balance between an independent stance and not actually getting fired was called for, especially since his association with the warrior band provided some small degree of protection.

He threw the folded blankets over a shoulder and sauntered out into the dimly lit alley. For most, Darktown was the most dangerous part of the city, but for the mage it was the safest. Here he was revered for the good that he'd done in healing the many diseases and injuries that plagued the poor inhabitants of the slum. Threaten Anders anywhere in Darktown and a mob of howling denizens would descend upon you, rusty knives at the ready.

As he turned the last corner before the clinic, a hand shot out and pulled him by the shoulder into a small cul-de-sac. Before he could cry out, another hand was placed firmly over his mouth and a whispered command of "Quiet, damn you!" blown directly into his ear. As he was released, he turned and smiled to see Fenris standing there, shifting his feet nervously.

"My blankets!" he demanded, "And I need to know when we are meeting again."

Anders shrugged off his burden and handed them to the elf, saying, "I'm not sure when we'll get together again. I'll let you know."

"No!" The reply was immediate and emphatic, accompanied by Fenris face thrust into his, his expression desperately dangerous. "No! I must know. I must have a date, a time!" He was pacing now, two steps one way, two steps back, in the confined space. It was amazing to Anders the he could stomp, even in bare feet. "You know what this means to me, how I get if I don't have… don't have what you can give me. Choose a time, any time, I'll be there, but just let me know… please."

There was a long pause before the last word, emphasizing how difficult it was for the elf to say. Anders raised his shoulders and let them fall back. "No, sorry, I haven't decided. When I do, I'll let you know, I promise." He started to walk away, not surprised when two strong hands clasped his neck firmly. Reaching up to pry them off, we said calmly, "I wouldn't do that down here. You see those glints over there? They are not cat eyes. You're being watched, and you may be powerful, but they have the numbers." He threw the elf's hands down and stalked off to the clinic, chuckling softly to himself.

As he walked through the door, he could hear Fenris swearing in Tevinter and slapping at the unoffending walls. There were only a few patients waiting, one, conveniently, with an eager boy all too ready to take a message to the notorious Hanged Man tavern. If his mother had not been so sick, she might have objected, so Anders scribbled his note quickly and sent it on its way before treating her. He then saw to the others, mixing up an herbal poultice for one wall-eyed young man with a horrifying boil.

When he was done, he washed carefully, all over, then took extra time with his hair, carefully slicking back the unruly mop with a pomade of rosemary oil and beeswax. He scented his body with some freshly ground thyme and lemon peel, then dressed in his best robe, leaving off the leggings. A small bit of discomfort just might pay big rewards tonight.

The meeting has been arranged for some weeks. When he set it up, he wasn't sure that he would be completely ready, but thanks to Fenris' careful tutelage, he was now feeling quite confident.

The sun was easing itself over the tops of the highest roofs on its journey to the sea and the merchants were beginning to pack up their wares as he emerged in Lowtown. He stopped at a shop that sold a surprisingly high grade and potent rum, buying two bottles of the very darkest. He'd brought fresh mint to flavor the beverage. Just one more stop.

The weapons master was down a narrow street and up three flights of stairs. If you didn't know where it was, you were not worthy of the treasures contained within. Anders had ordered the double bladed axe months before, and many arguments had ensued about its design, but tonight it would be ready.

Taller than a man, the weapon truly was a master's work. It was not something the mage could have afforded in coin. He had saved the smith's daughter when the healers of the Chantry had told the man that there was no hope. Now the debt would be cleared.

Anders stood back and looked at the weapon, the fine insets of bronze, the inscribed runes, and realized that it was all too much. It was a gift fit for royalty, but he did not warrant the giving such a gift. He made an elegant excuse to the craftsman, suggesting that for now the splendid axe stay in the shop as sample of his finest work.

It seemed that a great burden, just about a six and a half foot long axe sized burden, had been lifted and Anders whistled as he strolled towards the docks. When he could hear the gulls overhead, he inhaled deeply through his long nose to catch the salty scent. He loved the sea and this area that was the transition between water and land. It seemed to the mage that much magic went on in the foundries and warehouses that lined the broad streets. He could not help speculating about the contents on each as he passed by. Did that one contain fine spices from Antiva? Perhaps the other there housed silks from Orlais?

Approaching the Qunari compound, he nodded to the guard who waved him in. He had established his value to the enclave early on, relieved to find that Qunari healed the same as any other creature and that his magics and herbs were effective. At that time he was only preparing the way for what might be a useful alliance; it was not until he overhead a discussion of gaatlok, that powerful explosive, that he formed his plan.

He had arranged a silent partnership with Javaris Tintop, a particularly unscrupulous member of the dwarven race, to try to buy some of the powder. He didn't need much—he was sure he would be able to analyze and reproduce it given a small sample. Unfortunately, the Qunari had proved obdurate and the deal had never taken place.

Frustrated in that first attempt, he'd found that the gaatlok was under direct control of the Arishok, leader of the exiled giants. It seemed that they kept only a small amount, but that it was not difficult to formulate. The powder or the recipe, either would suit.

He was amused, after several visits to the compound, to find the Arishok a man like any other, despite his fearsome horned appearance. When he had established trust by healing several of the lesser warriors, he was pulled aside. With a harsh word, those waiting for the healer were scattered as the Arishok explained his own, and very personal, malady.

As the mage worked, taking somewhat more time that was strictly necessary, they discussed the Qun and its effect on its followers' personal lives. Anders was surprised to find that the strict philosophy forthrightly encouraged pleasure. Not, perhaps, the wanton activities to be found out in the dockside taverns, but neither the body nor mind were neglected by the complex doctrine.

However, in foreign lands where hygiene was not adhered to and health practices at best hit and miss, the explorations permitted by the dogma had given the Arishok and uncomfortable and embarrassing itch. Seeing the Qunari on the streets before he had approached them about plying his craft, Anders had wondered if the beautifully proportioned warriors were, well, beautifully proportioned throughout. He had been pleased and more that a little titillated to find it so.

Even after he was healed, the Arishok and the mage continued their conversations, but it was difficult for the Qunari to translate the concepts into the common tongue. It was that, and his continuing lust for the explosive powder, that had initiated the language lessons with Fenris. That he had found the perfect lever to make the elf cooperate had been sheer luck.

He had spent many weeks on the project, both learning the language and paying regular visits to the Arishok, bringing small gifts and potent liquors. A few times he had mentioned gaatlok indirectly, gauging what might inspire his huge friend to part with a sample or the formula. The Arishok had casually deflected his inquiries, again claiming the language barrier as an excuse.

Although he had been studying with Fenris for many weeks, he had not allowed the Arishok to know of his building facility in the Qunari tongue. Keeping the secret had allowed some delicious eavesdropping, and he wanted the revelation of his accomplishment to be a private gift.

Fortunately there were no patients awaiting him in the compound. Overall the Qunari were a healthy lot and once he had cleared up the initial accumulation of complaints large and small there had been little enough for him to do here.

He was escorted to the Arishok's personal quarters; luxurious by any standards and very private. As the door closed, he turned the latch. The Quanari leader was sitting on a stool by a low window looking out at the city. This was often the pose Anders found him in—contemplating the sins and disorder of Kirkwall.

Quietly, the mage said in his new tongue, "Pleased I find myself to see thee, friend, trusting that thine health is robust and thy desires fulfilled." It was a formal greeting, but one only used between intimates. The levels of personal and public address had been the most difficult aspect of the language to master.

Starting at the familiar words spoken by that equally familiar voice, the Arishok slowly rose and walked to the mage, embracing him fondly, saying in his people's tongue, "So, hast thou seen the light of the Qun?"

Laughing softly, the mage replied, "The virtuous Qun doth stand beyond my humble reach, but I would see the light of a Qunari." It was a declaration of affection… of an intimate nature, and Anders held his breath waiting for the reply.

The Arishok gently pushed him out so that he could look down into those sandy human eyes and replied, "Long have I wished for the light of the Qunari to find you, my friend."

Risking all, the mage reached up and touched first one gold encased ear, then the other, then the center of the forehead between the horns. It was invitation and submission in a formalized ritual and the meaning could not be mistaken. In the next few seconds, he would either further his plan or be banished from the compound if he were lucky, slain if not.


	3. Chapter 3

The Arishok pulled back, holding the mage away with one giant hand. "Was it the elf who taught you that?" he asked, his brows lowered and head tipped to the side in inquiry.

Clearly something was wrong, but Anders wasn't sure what. At least he was still breathing. Trying not to stammer, he answered in his new language, but mangled the syntax in his nervousness. "Yes, the elf, Fenris. He taught me your language and explained a bit about the Qun, and yes, he showed me that."

Before the mage could continue, the Arishok broke in. "We will speak now in the common tongue. It is important that you understand what I am about to say." It startled Anders to realize that, although he was still speaking Quanri, the Arishok had switched from the intimate to the formal address.

Moving fluidly to common speech, he continued, "He is not your friend, this elf." This was not news to Anders, but what exactly had the Fenris done to him? The Qunari continued, "What you have just done is Darthas-Dun. It cannot be denied and cannot be revoked. It is a ritual of complete submission and makes you, in every way, my slave, giving me the power of life and death over you, forever."

The mage blanched, his whole body quivering. Had he just sold himself to this Northerner, and for nothing but an elf's revenge? They were deep in the compound, even if he used magic, he doubted he would escape alive.

Seeing the small desperate movements the other was making, the Quanri held up a hand. "However, we are alone and I am Arishok. I shall not have heard or felt what just occurred. It did not happen."

Anders almost fainted with relief. He had come so close to having his life ended, or rather not ended, but made into what he was sure would be a living hell. He wondered if Fenris knew exactly what he was doing or if it was an error? But the elf was not prone to mistakes, and surely if he had been unsure he would have mentioned that. No, Anders believed it was an exquisite revenge. The only thing that was puzzling was that Fenris would be willing to give up the relief that the mage offered him. Perhaps he had found another able to supply that need. It wouldn't matter now; Anders had what he needed from Fenris and would be careful to not fall into any more clever traps. And thoughts of revenge could run both ways.

The Arishok motioned to a chair beside a mahogany table, encouraging the mage to sit before he fell. The table held a game they had been playing the last time they met and Anders concentrated on the pieces to bring his mind back into focus. The board was a grid scratched into a worn piece of soft wood and the playing men black and white polished stones. It was a game of strategy and deception that the mage enjoyed, but invariably lost. He had learned a great deal watching the Arishok maneuver his pieces until the snare tightened and there was no escape.

As he came back into himself, Anders looked up and said simply, "Thank you."

The Arishok flicked his hand as if dislodging a fly and said, "Nothing happened. It will not be spoken of. But tell me now, what is it you want? I have enjoyed our times together, but am not so naive as to believe that it was merely my company that kindled them. And I am honored that you took the trouble to learn to speak properly." At this, he returned to his native language, and to Anders' relief to the intimate mode. "So, 'tis time, my friend, that thou impart thy purpose. Methinks thee intended a ritual of Darthas-Dus, which, like Darthas-Dun, cannot be denied, but holds thee to no obligation past the single night. Is it only that thou doth wish my body? 'Tis flattering to think so, but doth not have the ring of truth. I would know what thee desires before we continue."

The time for game play was over. Anders knew that the Arishok would not tolerate dissimulation. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "A night with thee I woulds't indeed enjoy. Thy body has… fascinated me since we first met and I have found thee an engrossing companion these many nights. But as thou hast divined, my purpose lies deeper. I would know of gaatlok and its manufacture."

A smile spread across the Qunari's harsh features. "So, tantalesh, it was thee who hired the underhanded dwarf. I have wondered." It was not a question, but Anders was more startled to hear himself referred to as tantalesh, beloved friend, than that the Arishok had unraveled his previous plot. The mention of gaatlok had not destroyed their carefully crafted bond. The mage could not prevent himself from issuing a small sigh of relief, which caused the Qunari's smile to broaden.

"Darthas-Dus, is this what thee wishes also? 'Twill make for this one night only, a slave of thee. Before thou dost answer, consider carefully. Much depends on how much thou dost believe in my compassion and forbearance."

Fenris had explained it as an assertion of submission to the act of love, but had not mentioned the degree of submission that would be required. Anders had thought of it only as a quaint Qunari ritual of seduction. Did he really trust the Arishok enough that he would put not only his manhood, but his very life, in his hands, even for an evening. Of course each time he came to the compound and especially to this room, he was giving the Qunari the power of life and death, but Qunari were nothing if not honorable, so unless he did something like inadvertently enact the Darthas-Dun, the risk was small. It was different to contemplate surrendering his will as well as his body, even for one night.

One of the things that he enjoyed about the Arishok was his serenity. If there was a lull in conversation, simply because a topic had found its end or one was lost in thought, there was no hurrying to fill the void with pointless chatter. The Qunari was a master of comfortable silence.

Getting up slowly from the chair, Anders began to pace. The gaatlok was, of course, his main objective, but he wanted the Arishok as well. The play with Fenris was satisfying from a perspective of power, but there was no affection, quite the opposite, and although the elf had become more proficient, the lack of true exchange of pleasure left the mage feeling frustrated and out of sorts.

The Qunari was the most powerful being he had ever met, at least in the physical sense, and that alone was a mighty draw. And they _had_ become close friends, even if Anders' motivation for initiating the friendship was mercenary. Plus his curiosity was more than aroused; what _would_ it be like to be made love to by a giant? But to surrender everything? It was an immense risk.

The Arishok waited patiently, studying the game board before him. He had never contemplated tolestesh with a human, although he and Anders had discussed the Qun's attitude towards pleasure. It had surprised the mage to discover that although quoltesh, pairing for reproduction, was strictly controlled, tolestesh, pairing for pleasure, had no physical restrictions. There were concerns for emotional involvement with an inappropriate caste, but as long as such complications were avoided, the Qun encouraged what the Chantry would think of as licentiousness.

If the mage initiated Darthas-Dus, the Arishok would be very interested in finding his limits. Even a Qunari, more or less so depending on rank, could be pushed beyond his breaking point by Darthas-Dus; how would a soft human respond? He sat up observing the man's agitation. Interesting how it was difficult for a human to come to a decision. If he wanted the gaatlok, he would submit, if not, not; all of this todo was to little point.

Finally, Anders stopped in front of the Arishok, saying, "Yes. Woulds't thou teach me Darthas-Dus, should it please thee."

The Qunari stood, towering over the tall mage, and replied, "In the teaching is the doing. If thou dost say these words and make these gestures, then Darthas-Dus is done. This time there will be no retreat. Dost thou understand? Woulds't like it explained in common tongue?" So saying, he reverted to the common speech and repeated the warning.

Looking up, the mage paled a bit, but replied in his newly acquired Qunari, "I understand. To say the words, to do the ritual, will commit me to thee for the night in complete subjugation." He was breathing heavily through his nose, his chest rising and falling with each deep respiration.

Anders was shocked when the Arishok laughed harshly and said in the common tongue, "You must really want this gaatlok, little human."

Replying in kind, he said, "Yes, I do. I believe that it will be necessary for what I must accomplish, but it is not only that. I want you as well, and I suspect that you are not inclined to offer me Darthas-Dus."

At this the Qunari laughed louder, the first real laugh Anders had heard from him. "Very well, small one. _Tonight_ you will remember, should you live to have memory at all."

At that Anders almost changed his mind. If it has been only his libido driving him, he would have, but he and Justice needed that gaatlok. He hoped that the spirit would be able to get him through the night.

As if reading his mind, the Arishok asked, "And that demon within you, it agrees also? I would not wish to be forced to slay you because your demon reneged."

No matter how many times Anders tried to explain that Justice was a spirit, not a demon, the Qunari would refer to him as nothing else. It had been Justice as much as anything that had originally intrigued the Arishok, and Anders had been surprised to find that the spirit was willing to join in their discussions. Awkward at first, it soon become natural to have the three of them conversing long into the night.

"He is in agreement," Anders answered, thinking, not only is he in agreement, he probably would not let me retreat should I wish to.

The Arishok rubbed his chin in thought, then said, "Very well. We begin. Say these words." They had the same meaning as the words Fenris had taught him, but they words themselves were different and apparently that difference was all.

"I desire the light of the Qunari to shine within me and about me," the giant rumbled, then nodded. Anders repeated carefully, being precise in his pronunciation. He didn't want to commit himself to something worse through an inadvertently misspoken word. When he was done, the Arishok nodded again, then said, "You will touch my chest, in the center, over the heart." The mage did so. "Now my chin." It was done. "No my forehead, between my eyes, and linger there a moment." Anders wondered if the lingering were part of the rite or only for the Qunari's pleasure as he performed the act.

"It is done. You are mine until the cock crows." Never had Anders thought that he would be grateful that the docks seemed to be overrun by scrawny poultry, but at this moment knowing that there were cocks to crow was a great comfort.


	4. Chapter 4

Sitting, the Arishok said, "We shall use the common tongue. I wish no confusion on your part about anything that I order you to do. Strip."

Well, Anders really would not have expected the Qunari to be anything but decisive, however he was still startled by the clinical command. It was said in exactly the slightly bored, impersonal voice that he used with patients. Looking at the Arishok, he saw a small smile playing about his lips and wondered if that was exactly the intent, a mocking of their first meeting when Anders had said those words to his large patient.

He sat to remove his boots, placing them against the wall where they would be out of the way. He then stood, dropped his belt, and unfastened the few buckles holding his robes in place. He let them fall around his feet and stood naked before the Arishok.

"Efficient," was the comment, then as the giant focused on the mage's erect penis, "You are built like a pony, although not so large." It was true that his human organ more resembled a horse's than the gracefully curved appendage of the Qunari. He almost shot back, 'And you are built like a dog,' but thought better of insulting his master so early in the evening.

He had been fascinated when he first saw a Qunari penis in the course of his ministering to the small colony. More like that of the bull their horns resembled than a human's, it was nevertheless almost as thick as his wrist in it's flaccid state. It was smoother, with a more pronounced curve than a man's, and tapered at the tip rather than having a blunt head. It nestled within a neat enclosing sheath that required the patient to reach within and withdraw the organ before it could be examined. At the time, the mage had wondered why humans were not so equipped. Certainly that compact protective sheath was more practical than a frail foreskin.

The Arishok rose languidly and laid his large hand on Anders' bare chest, allowing his fingers to explore while he murmured, "Soft, so soft." The hand moved behind his neck and the large horned head descended, the lips opening over slightly pointed teeth. The mage found himself shy at the kissing, pinning his tongue to the floor of his mouth, while the Qunari explored at will. The strength and length of the muscular appendage was startling. The Arishok easily reached the back of his throat and beyond, causing the mage to struggle to control his gag reflex. This elicited a soft chuckle as the Qunari withdrew and said, "So soon I am too much for you. You may live to regret this night. Then again, you may not."

With that chillingly ambiguous statement, he instructed, "Remove my clothing. Slowly and exactly as I instruct." Each buckle and lace was enumerated, the mage directed in exacting detail in the ways of the Qunari garments. As he worked, he started to understand what the Arishok meant when he called Anders soft. Although the mage was a fit as any man, there was a thin layer of fat beneath his skin that was completely missing in the giant. It was as if his flesh were stretched over a hard wooden form with no give at all. Contemplating this, the healer longed for an opportunity to dissect one of the Qunari. What other wonders of comparative anatomy might he find?

He had removed the various straps and robes that constituted the top part of the elaborate garment. The Arishok held up a hand and sat, extending a leg so that the mage could remove his boots. It was a practice that Anders was used to—he swung a leg over, facing away, and started to pull the heel loose. As the boot came off, it fell to the ground, almost taking the mage with it. Grunting, Anders bent and retrieved the errant footwear. It required most of his strength to lift it and he staggered as he carried it to the wall to sit next to his own more modest boots.

When he turned, the Northerner was holding up the other leg, moving it up and down invitingly. Again mounting in the position best suited for wrenching off a recalcitrant boot, Anders almost jumped when he felt a bare calloused toe stroking his backside. Trying to ignore the rough motion, Anders loosened the heel of the boot and braced himself to free it. As he was ready to pull, steeling himself for the weight, a large toe sunk itself into him with perfect aim. He shouted in surprise and shot across the room, the heavy boot clutched protectively to his chest.

Rising, his expression accusatory, he was greeted by an Arishok who was doubled over in laughter, pounding on his knee. "Ah, little human," he gasped, when he could speak at all, "it promises to be a most interesting evening indeed."

Rubbing his bruised posterior ruefully, Anders placed the boot next to its mate and awaited the next command. The Arishok stood and resumed his careful directions for the removal of his clothing, watching to assure that each order was carried out precisely.

When the last sash was loosened, the last belt unbuckled, the last swath of fabric unwrapped, the Qunari stood naked and proud before the awed gaze of the human. The beast was magnificent. His shoulders were twice as wide as the mage's, narrowing to hips almost as slim and… standing deep red and proud, the fully erect manifestation of what Anders had only seen in the flaccid state before.

In the undressing, the Arishok had been careful that, other than having to unhook the occasional garment from the hard prong, the mage did not touch or see what the was to reveal. It was cleverly done to make the unveiling all the more impressive.

Blinking in admiration and trepidation, the mage tentatively held out a hand, not quite daring to touch. He looked up at the Qunari, and received a nod. The rod was shiny and smooth with a large vein running up the underside to the pointed head. Touching first with a single finger, Anders then boldly wrapped his hand around the staff midway, shocked when he found that his fingers and thumb did not meet. He stood for a moment considering how small his hand looked, not quite surrounding the organ, then slid it up until, near the tip, fingers finally met thumb. The Arishok was observing him with amusement, his head tipped to the side and a smile playing about the corners of his wide mouth.

Unwinding the hand, the Qunari brought it to his lips, licking and sucking the fingers as Anders found that his erection, which had withered at the first sight of the giant appendage, was now rising anew. The Arishok paid close attention to his task, working his long and powerful tongue between the fingers and up the underside of the wrist, then abruptly dropped the hand and drifted to the thick pile of furs and elegant fabrics in a dim corner. On his way, he snagged the lamp from the game table, turning up the wick and setting it near the head of the bed.

Slowly he lowered his bulk, pulling pillows behind him so that he was propped in the corner, his legs spread, one foot carelessly over the edge. Looking directly at the mage, with a negligent gesture he indicated the staff growing between his legs, then cupped the hairy, bull heavy balls, bouncing them in invitation.

Seeing the red striped white skin of that magnificent frame accentuated by the equally red organ gilded by lamplight, Anders gasped at the shear beauty of the form before him. He had thought the Arishok a handsome creature from the first time he saw him, but now, laid out casually, but nobly, naked before him, the sight was overwhelming.

As if in a trance, he approached, dropping to his knees between the outstretched legs, his head lowered, awaiting direction.

"Your mouth and both hands," the Arishok commanded, "as you would to a human. Let me see how it is that love is made in your world."

Thinking that no man he had ever met would require both hands, the mage nonetheless complied, grasping the staff and lowing his head onto the pointed end. He was so startled by the taste of cinnamon that he almost jumped back. Of all the things he had expected, the alluring flavor of cinnamon and something else… butter? was not on his list. Smiling around his overfilled mouth, he started to lick and suck with greater enthusiasm, thinking that there was much to like about a Qunari as a bedmate.

The Arishok continued to observe, making suggestions now and again, primarily requesting a stronger grip and more vigor in the pumping and licking. Anders' hand was cramping and his mouth ached when the giant finally said, "Enough. You have done well for your limited abilities."

He pulled the mage up onto his chest, running thick fingers through long blond hair, licking at the ears and nibbling alarmingly at the carotid with sharp teeth. The Qunari's large hands closed on Anders' lean buttocks, easily lifting him and placing him like a doll on the giant's chest, his cock rising before the Arishok's fascinated gaze. The Qunari's tongue shot out, wrapping itself completely around the mage's staff as Anders bit his lip to keep from coming. No sensation he had ever had came close to what he was now feeling as that muscular, infinitely pliable organ worked its way up and down, grasping, squeezing, teasing. The pointed end of the tongue found the hole at the tip of the mage's penis and began forcing it's way inside until Anders shouted in protest. The lingual tease immediately ceased as the Qunari drew his tongue back to laugh heartily. "So, small one," he said, "that is not pleasing? Are you a gentle flower, requiring only the softest touch?"

In truth, Anders felt like saying "Yes," in a small voice, but instead tried to explain the vagaries of human anatomy while gently stroking his abused organ with a healing finger. This the Arishok observed with great interest, saying, "Tell me mage, how much damage can you sustain? How much can you heal yourself and how quickly?"

In the circumstances, it was clearly not an academic question, and Anders shuddered in fear and desire. The question was delicately phrased, but the meaning was clear: would he take the Arishok within himself, and if so, how much before it was too much and his abilities, and likely his life, fled him. When he had been laying on the giant earlier, he felt that trunk like organ tickling between his pectorals. In both length and girth it was more than any human could accept in toto… but in part? There was no denying the icy fear between his shoulder blades, but it was offset by the burning in his loins. He knew himself to be mad, but he did want to know his limits and he did want to know the feeling of that cinnamon scented organ within him, to feel the orgasm of the Qunari, whatever that may be like, to experience what he may never have the opportunity to experience again.

The giant was eying him speculatively, and Anders blushed, at the same time thinking what an odd reaction that was. He felt rather like a school girl with her first beau, unsure and frightened, but also ardent.

"So, you want this," the Arishok rumbled. "Not that it would matter, since you are mine to command, and it is something I desire. But I like you mage, so I would have you survive the night, if possible. Are we in agreement on that?"

Anders head was nodding so vigorously he thought it might come unhinged when he saw the slight smile on the Arishok's face. Still not sure if it was a joke or not, he decided it was not a time to take that risk and said, "Yes. Yes, surviving the night is something that I would much prefer to, well, to the alternative."

Again the Qunari laughed in his deep resonant way, a sound that Anders was beginning to find strangely comforting, however his words were less so. "I make no promises, but I shall endeavor to be gentle, within reason, with your delicate self. You should know, though, that once the," he used a Qunari word unfamiliar to Anders, but the meaning was clear, "is upon me, I may not have the control I would wish. It is a risk, but a risk I am willing to take."

Anders wondered if, after all that he had been through, with the Circle, in Amaranthine, in Kirkwall, the dragons and bandits and other perils, if it were all to end tonight on the tip of a fleshy Qunari spear. He mentally shrugged, although his heart beat a rapid tattoo. He only hoped that if he died, the exact manner was not bruited about, much as Varric would treasure the tale.


	5. Chapter 5

"Move down a bit, so that we are tip to tip and I may gauge you," the Arishok instructed. Doing as he was told, Anders braced himself on his hands and moved down until the tip of his penis was even with that of the Qunari. Before he could settle, a large hand had enveloped them both, covering the mage from root to top. The Arishok squeezed and Anders screamed. He could feel his erect cock bending around the harder organ of the giant and hear the deep guffaws underlying his own cry. Suddenly he was released, and he fell back onto this haunches, running a healing hand gently over his abused self.

One hand still on his cock, marking the limits of the mage, the Arishok reached behind and rummaged in basket on the small table that held the lamp. Despite his pain and fear, Anders was intrigued by the metallic sounds coming from the Qunari's searching. Grunting in satisfaction, the giant held out a large golden ring, slipping it over his cock and forcing it down to the bottom of the encircling hand. "That shall remind me of your limits," he explained. "For you, tools to prevent an early arrival."

He held up a much smaller ring and pushed it onto Anders' bruised staff until it nestled at the very base, laughing at the mage's indignant "Ow!"

"That one will see you stay hard," the giant continued, and, hummm…" he searched in the basket, then apparently not finding a suitable size, pulled a ring from his thumb and forced it over the head of Anders' penis where it stuck under the glans. "That one," he continued, "will keep you from coming sooner than I wish.

"Stand and let me see you." Anders climbed to his feet and stood submissively, his arms at his side, his throbbing and decorated organ prominent. The Arishok tipped his head thoughtfully, then said, "You skin is white for a human, and this is pleasing to me. However, to have the markings of the kossith upon you would please me further."

Intrigued, Anders asked, "The red paint you wear? Is that what you mean? Is it permitted on a human?"

The giant replied, "I cannot decorate you as a warrior, that would be forbidden, but I am Arishok and may place on you a pattern pleasing to me. You are mistaken if you think this paint, however." He indicated the elaborate design covering his own body. "It is perhaps closer to the process of etching."

Considering, and as he realized the implications trying to control his reaction, the mage asked, "Etching, as in acid?"

The Arishok was looking towards the ceiling, drawing figures in the air with one massive finger. "Um, yes, like that," he answered distractedly.

In a voice not so brave as he might wish, Anders asked, "But doesn't that…"

Before he could finished, the Qunari replied, "Hurt? Yes, quite a bit."

The mage looked at this giant that he had thought his friend and asked, "You would torture me for your pleasure?"

The Qunari took a moment for thought, then said calmly, "Yes."

Anders wanted to shout, "No!" To argue against the burning of his flesh for nothing but an evening's visual stimulation for his captor," but instead asked quietly, "Is it permanent?"

Still making his movements through the air, the Arishok replied, "No, it will fade in, um, well, on a human I cannot say, but for us in a turn and a half of the moon or so. It allows the pattern to be changed and renewed, but there will always be a faint trace of the old design."

Damning his curiosity, but intrigued despite himself, the mage asked, "So, you have this done every month or so? Everyone that I see these patterns on?"

The reclining giant nodded. "It is an honor for the warrior. Each line has a significance and must be renewed. The Tal-Vashoth mock us by having degenerate patterns placed on them, but even they will not use a mark of a true warrior. But for you, something pleasing to the eye and touch is all that will be required. I believe that I have the vision I need to start."

Anders felt himself shrink back involuntarily. There was no escape, but his body had not quite accepted the fact. Damnably, even as his balls retracted in fear, his cock, caught between the Qunari's rings, stayed firm and eager.

The giant uncoiled himself from the bed, walking serenely to a chest on the other side of the room and extracting a great quantity of silken ropes in all colors. He held several skeins up to the mage, considering, and finally settled on a deepest violet and crimson. At the sight of the restraints, the mage whimpered despite himself.

Looking up in surprise, the Arishok asked, "Binding is not part of sex play among humans."

"It is not uncommon." The honestly of his answer surprised Anders. He wondered if his candor were the result of some subtle magic of the Arishok, or perhaps an herb slipped into his rum. He continued, "However, I have a particular aversion to being tied. It comes from being captured by the Templars, more times than I care to remember, and well, other things also. So, if we could skip that part. I'll be a good boy."

The Qunari smiled down at him, a look that made the mage shiver and shrink further into himself. "Even Arishok are bound for the culm-thest, the… hum, decorating. Later you will be bound again as well, both for my gratification and to keep you from attempting escape. I would not wish to have to slay you because you break the Darthas-Dus, and your will may not be sufficient to confine you.

Before he could protest further, a loop of violet silk was slipped around his wrist and his arm tied to a ring in the wall at Qunari shoulder height. He had noticed these brass rings on earlier visits, but had thought them merely fixtures to hold lamps or decorations. The other arm was tied to a ring opposite so that he was stretched between the two points. His reaction was even worse than he expected. All of the memories of being bound by the Templars came rushing over him, the loss of freedom, the helplessness, the fear. He dropped his head and let himself hang, suspended by his arms, his feet trailing… that is, until one foot was caught up by a rope around the ankle and pulled from under him. The Arishok looped this strand through a hook near the floor, the tied it off to the tall ring. The other leg was bound and the mage stood, spread and helpless, realizing that he was, indeed, if only for this one evening, a slave without will of his own. He comforted himself with thoughts of revenge on Fenris, but both Justice and that part of him that was honest required that he admit that it was his own greed for the gaatlok that had gotten him into this position.

Standing before him, the Arishok said, "There are preparations to be made. It will be some little while. You may contemplate your bargain while this task is accomplished." With these words, the Qunari left him. He could hear rustling behind him, presumably the Arishok donning his clothes, then the door opened and closed. When he thought he was alone, he tested the ropes, knowing the effort was vain, but compelled to do so anyway. Of course the ropes were strong and the knots expertly done. The loops on ankles and wrists, tied so quickly, were not excessively tight, but neither was there any play nor hope of escape there. Having nothing else to do, he did as the Arishok suggested and contemplated his position.

There was no doubt that if this were Fenris' revenge it was both sweet and apt—to take his tormentor and turn him into a slave so that he might know something of what the elf had gone through. Anders was still not sure if Fenris had meant him to be subject to the full horror of Darthas-Dun, or if that had been a mistake, a lack of knowledge, or perhaps even an error in Anders' own pronunciation. In the end, it did not matter, the elf would pay, and pay dearly, if the mage survived the night.

As his limbs became numb, Anders considered the gaatlock and his use for it. It was something that he wished to have prepared, but hoped to never need. But the preparations must be made soon, in case of the worst; they could not wait until the situation was already out of hand. Was it all worth it? Both the pain and danger he was now in and the lives that would be lost if his plan were forced to consummation? He didn't need the emphatic answer of Justice, as the face of Karl swam before him. Karl before the rite, his face full of love and the joy of living, even living within the confines of the Circle. Karl who had done nothing, ever, except help Anders once again escape and who had paid with more than his life for that act of devotion. Yes, it was worth whatever price was exacted from him or anyone else to end the madness.

It as not long before the door opened again—Anders could have wished for it to be much longer, until the crowing of the cock perhaps. The Arishok moved in front of him holding a small bowl and what the anatomist Anders immediately recognized as a human humerus, ancient and worn, a paddle carved into one end. The Qunari smiled at the recognition and said, "Apologies. A relic from the last unpleasantness, many years ago. However, it is now traditional and the instrument I am most comfortable with."

Putting bowl and bone in one hand, the Arishok began tracing patterns with the other on the mage's skin with a large finger. Anders shivered and squirmed, but his weak protests were ignored. Satisfied with what he saw in his mind, the giant carefully submerged the paddle in the dark liquid, then touched it to the mage's pale flesh.

The pain was immediate and searing and for the second time Anders screamed. There was no hope or pretense of being brave, at that first touch he lost control. Some very small part of his mind realized why even the Arishok was bound for this ritual before he succumbed to the agony.

It seemed to go on for days, with pauses as the Arishok stood back and considered his next move, pauses which only made the subsequent touch that much more harrowing. The work started at his collar bone, moving down each arm and then his chest, front and back, the pattern slowly growing. Strangely, those parts not yet touched began to feel chilled next to the raging heat of the decorated sections.

Although his face had been spared, at least so far, the palms of his hands and soles of his feet did not fare as well; even these sensitive areas were inscribed. When his body was finally covered by a complex pattern of intersecting lines and forms, the Arishok stood back, his eyes fixed on the still erect penis. Blinking at the pause, trying to focus, Anders saw where he was looking and cried out, "Maker, no! Please, no, not that, no…" The cry became a wail as the paddle descended then sweet oblivion enveloped him.


	6. Chapter 6

When the mage awoke, his first sensation was of a hand wandering idly through his hair. Then the throbbing of his body brought the memory back. He was surprised that the pain was not more intense. He was aware of every place he had been marked and the awareness was of pain, but not too extreme and strangely alluring. He realized that he was laying on the Arishok's naked chest and that the giant was almost cuddling him. He heard a deep whisper in his ear, "Hummm, you awake. You are stronger than you look, little one. You have been bathed in the lesmatk. It eases the after effects of the marking, no?" With this, the Qunari reached out and stroked one of the red slashes. Anders moaned more in pleasure than pain, to his surprise, and the Arishok chuckled.

Tentatively, afraid of what he would find, the mage let his hand, then his eyes, venture down to his penis. It was bright red, as red as an Qunari's and intensely sensitive, but seemed to be intact and astonishingly still in its erect state. He wondered if he could add to his bargain the secret of whatever the Qunari used to obtain these sustained erections. He was sure there was more than just the two rings involved.

The Arishok reached up, then held a cup before him. "Rum," he said, "with restoring herbs. Drink. You will need your strength for what comes next."

Anders took the cup, sipping cautiously, then with more enthusiasm, finding the taste and the effect both pleasant. But that "what comes next…" was he not to have any respite? He would have been quite happy to spend the rest of the night curled up here, drinking rum and discussing philosophy.

The Arishok, sensing the human's need, did allow a time for exactly that, indulging the mage as tantalesh, his beloved friend, as well as recognizing the frailty of the human form. However, the night was moving on and the Qunari had been granted only this one night. He allowed himself to contemplate what it might have been like if he had not allowed the mage to slip the bonds of Darthas-Dun. To have such a one as a sort of intelligent pet might be agreeable. Many nights to explore the mind and body of the other. But he had let the opportunity pass, trading companionship for friendship. He now wondered if that friendship would endure the night.

Anders realized that he was more than slightly drunk and was grateful for it. He had a suspicion that any numbness would be a boon in the hours ahead. He was a bit startled when the Arishok lifted him, easily placing him on his feet where he swayed softly.

The Qunari had padded over to his brass bound chest and was bringing more coils of rope. Many more coils of rope, all of them crimson or violet. Watching this, Anders said, slurring only slightly, "No, no more rope. I'll… I'll do what you want, but no more… rope," on the last word he hiccuped and giggled.

Ignoring the mage's words, the Arishok picked up a wooden clothes rack, carelessly discarding its contents, and said, "You will need something to clutch," as he lay it on the bed. He gestured the mage forward and said, "Both hands, on the strut there, just so."

Anders bent and grabbed the bar, dismayed when his prompt obedience did not prevent the Qunari from measuring out a length of rope. A silken strand, a deeper crimson than his new markings, was tied around his upper arm then worked in knots and loops until his arm was covered to his hand, which was bound to the wooden rod he held. The other arm was treated in the same fashion. The Arishok then pulled a strand connecting the two nets and the arms were drawn together, not touching but close enough that his elbows bit into the mage's chest.

Anders had been quiescent throughout all of this, realizing that he had little choice, but also fascinated by the artistry. This was no simple tying. The pattern of the ropes was precise and exquisite. Although the material was soft and smooth, it irritated the newly burned areas, but in the way that a preparation of cantharides might both irritate and delight.

The Arishok now looped a violet strand around the back of the mage's neck, causing him to look up in alarm. The rope was not pulled tight, but was woven into a small ball that sat in the hollow at the base of the neck. It was then run down the chest to the belly, where another ball was formed, this one standing proud from the strand. The knotted ball was fit within the mage's navel and tied behind his back. The whole, from throat to back, was taunt but not tight, however when the Qunari plucked any of the strands, they caused the mage to jerk and cry out.

Satisfied that the tension was correct so far, the Arishok made another elaborate knot at the top of the Anders' buttocks, then took the two strands between them, pulling them through the legs and back over the hips to tie them there, assuring that the cheeks where held open. Anders squirmed in surprise as the cold air hit his most hidden area and found that the slight movement brought sensations throughout all of the bound portions, one movement playing the many strings of his captivity.

Regretfully he found himself sobering during the painstaking process and asked for more rum. The Qunari considered, then granted his request, holding a cup for him to lap from since it was impossible to pull his head back far enough to drink.

Once more fortified, the mage relaxed, resigned—for the moment at least.

His legs were bound in the same elaborate manner as his arms, from mid-thigh to ankle, the ropes even turned around his feet so that he stood on them and his new burns. When the Arishok was content with the knots and plating, he ran a long bight of rope from each leg through hoops affixed to the wall opposite one another. Taking both ropes in hand and standing behind the mage, he pulled sharply, spreading the legs and opening Anders further. Caught by surprise, the mage cried out then groaned as the pressure settled in.

"How much further can you spread?" the Qunari asked. The answer he wanted to give was, somewhat less than I am now, but could only a moan issued from his mouth. The Arishok considered, gave one more small tug, then tied off the ends.

The mage was now supported only my his hands on the bar and his wide spread legs. The Qunari wondered if it would be necessary to run lines from his waist to the ceiling rings. Perhaps, but such lines would he a hinderance, and for now the mage seemed willing to stand.

Moving to the bed, the Arishok positioned himself before Anders mouth and kissed him, a kiss that was surprisingly tender. Bemused, drunk on rum and pain, the mage allowed his own tongue freedom to wander. Just when some fey part of his mind thought that perhaps it would all end here, that the binding was nothing but an elaborate masquerade, the Qunari withdrew and ducked down slightly. Anders felt a rope encircle one ball and then the other, pulling up between them until two distinct sacks hung between his legs. He moaned as the strand was tightened further, then wrapped around his cock, embracing its entire length and finished off just below the upper ring. The ends of this rope were tied to the loop around his neck so that any movement of head or hips would be felt in both sensitive locations.

Strumming the rope, watching the mage convulse and gasp, the Qunari nodded in satisfaction. He then stood on the bed and pulled down a crimson cloth that Anders had thought merely a wall hanging. When the cloth was released a large piece of highly polished silver, an almost perfect mirror, was revealed. The mage stared in shock at his bound and decorated self, looking for something of him in what he saw. The face was right. Haggard looking and a bit blurry, but it was his face, the rest, however, was too exotic to fully comprehend. It was a vision that he might see in troubled dreams after a night of imbibing too deeply, but nothing he had ever expected to see awake. And behind him loomed the giant, his tree like red cock dominating all.

Chuckling to himself, the Qunari moved to the doorway and shouted an order down the hallway. Almost immediately the room was full of retainers bringing tables and food and drink to lay upon them. Steaming platters and tall bowls of colorful fruit. Beakers and pitchers. A beautiful sliver goblet. All of this Anders could see in the mirror knowing that he was as fully exposed and helpless as it was possible to be. To his shame, he recognized some of the servants and he wondered how he would ever face them again.

More small tables and lamps were brought and placed so that the scene, and especially Anders, was well lit, the flames thrown back by the mirror and multiplying. The mage closed his eyes in humiliation, but the Arishok was watching closely and admonished, "No. You will keep them open. You will see it all. I so order and so you will do."

Rebellion dying hard, Anders thought, "Or what," but his imagination took hold and the 'or what' became an all too real a possibility. He forced his lids open, trying to stare only straight ahead into his own eyes, but unable to prevent himself from seeing the activity in the background as well.

When all was set and the servitors dismissed, the Arishok brought a plate heaped with cheese and fruit and the silver goblet. He lay on his elbow before Anders, holding a piece of soft peach to his mouth. For a brief moment the mage thought of petulantly refusing, but he was hungry and thirsty and the fruit smelled wonderful. He bit, allowing the flavor to burst through his mouth and the welcome juice slide down his throat. The Arishok continued to feed him, eating only sparingly himself, until the mage protested that he was full. The Qunari then held up the goblet so Anders could lap from it like a cat, saying, "This is emrus-din, and normally restricted to followers of the Qun, but I have decided to make an exception in your case. It will bring you both ease and excitement. Your body will become more sensitive than you thought possible and your mind more open to pleasure."

Anders was beyond caring, the words washing over him, but the liquid was cool, sweet and refreshing. That was all that mattered in the moment.


	7. Chapter 7

[For Andrea and her inspiring fascination with the Arishok's tongue.]

As he stared into the mirror, Anders realized that he could taste all of the colors of the room and see every scent. A voice, growing fainter, told him that this was not right, then it died away in a whisper. Every nerve in his body was on alert, reaching out for new experiences, accepting each sensation as pleasure, knowing only the moment yet yearning for more. The ropes made a lyre of his body and he longed for each string to be plucked. Before him was a beautiful vision that he was vaguely aware was his own body and behind it the magnificent beast that would be the source of all satisfaction.

The Arishok refilled the silver goblet, allowing a meniscus to form as the liquid almost overtopped the rim. He threw the potion back, taking it in a gulp, and dropping the vessel.

Watching in the glimmering reflection, to Anders it appeared as if a god were swallowing moon beams, the movement slowed and spread into a milky smear by his altered vision. The metallic clatter as the chalice hit the planked floor reverberated in his mind like a thousand tiny temple bells.

Closing his eyes to ready himself, the Arishok let the emrus-din do its work. As it coursed through his body, setting alight the surface of his skin, washing through his blood and bringing to light the other world that lived within him but was hidden from normal perception, he thought of the human before him. He had wanted the mage, of course, as he would want any healthy and exotically handsome animal presented to him, but had not thought to be given his desire.

The emrus-din took hold and all thought left the giant as he stroked his now hyper-sensitive horns. The mages eyes followed every movement in the mirror much as a rat will watch a dancing snake, knowing that the serpent holds death or redemption. Each motion was languorous as he approached his prey. There was no hurry in the world of emrus-din, only the infinite moment, and each moment of crystalline perfection.

Anders saw the Qunari looming above him, that crimson staff rampant, stretching out, adorned with the one golden ring that would be his salvation. The smell, the taste, the essence of cinnamon engulfed him as the Arishok stroked its tip, bringing forth a cascade of clear liquid that fell hot onto the mage's back, sliding down the ravine that split him and dripping to the floor. He saw the shaft dip, then felt the pressure at his most secret opening. The liquid was slick and eased the way, but he still had to brace himself to withstand the steady force.

The Arishok was pleased to find the mage tight like a virgin boy, despite his undoubted experience. Perhaps a quality of being human or a gift of his magic, it did not matter. The thought that it would take strength to breach that defense, and that when he did he would be rewarded with delightfully constricted sheath, made his tongue reach out to lap his broad lips in anticipation.

Seeing that tongue, Anders moaned. The Qunari, every sense aflame, understood immediately. Stroking himself to release yet more of his copious and spicy lubricating fluid, he bent his great head and allowed his tongue to explore between the mages legs, wrapping itself around the bound cock and strumming the taunt ropes.

Anders was sure that he had died—it was simply not possible to have this much pleasure and still be living. The touch of that prehensile organ coated in spice laden slickness, playing at his cock, his balls, his belly, then sliding back through his legs, aroused every fiber of his being. The Qunari lapped at him as if greedy for his essence. He was licked from front to back, as he moaned and thrashed against his bonds, trying to find escape from the sensations that were overwhelming him. Then the Arishok delicately pieced him, allowing the pointed tip of his tongue to sink into the mage.

The Qunari was not sure if humans had the same divine spot as those of his species, but was curious to explore. He pushed his tongue in further, then allowed it to bend down, its stiffness powerfully stroking a place just beyond the opening. As the mage howled his passion, the Arishok smiled to himself. So they were not so different, these small and frail ones. He spent several more minutes in his labors until Anders was vibrating and humming with euphoria.

Withdrawing, he retrieved the goblet, filling it once again, and placed himself on the bed under the suspended man, holding the cup up for Anders to refresh himself. At first the mage was shaking too violently to be able to drink, even in his small lapping motions, but the Qunari was patient. When a quantity of emrus-din has found its way into the mage, the Arishok replaced the cup with the end of his penis. Although he had just drank his fill, Anders lapped and sucked like a man three days into a desert journey without a canteen. He was amazed by the almost continuous fountain of thick liquid that poured from the organ; the source of all of that cinnamon scent. His tongue did not have the reach nor the strength of the Qunari's, but he made up for his deficiencies as best he could with a unstinting enthusiasm. His hyper-sensitive body made every lick, every stroke a joy unequaled until the next.

Grunting, the Arishok placed his hand on Anders' forehead, pushing it back and tightening the web of ropes that encased his body. He placed his lips on the mage's and allowed his tongue to unfurl within the mouth of the other, tasting there the emrus-din and his own molten fluid. His longer appendage wrapped the mage's twice around, squeezing deliciously as he let the tip tickle the roof of the mouth. As he did this, he reached out and strummed the rope between chest and belly, the one between cock and throat, then each lesser strand until the mage's breath came fast and short and he could feel the other's pulse through his own mouth.

It was time. There was some regret in the realization, but the kesfals, the time of opening, of preparation, was complete. Now there was only the completion. He had restrained himself from the full measure of emrus-din to allow the control that would be needed to not completely sunder the mage. He closed his eyes and hoped that it would be enough when the moment was upon him.

Anders was aware that he was making mewling noises, very much like a spoiled and insistent kitten, but had no power to stop himself. He was sure that if he did not get release soon he would go mad, to live forever in the haze of the emrus-din—and a part of him hoped for that destiny. The Qunari had risen and was standing behind him performing some ritual of mediation, his eyes closed, his hand moving through the air trancing elaborate figures. As he did so, the mage felt the pattern etched on his body come alive, each stroke and whorl in turn, until it seemed that his skin was dancing, too joyous to stay quiescent any longer.

Abruptly, the Arishok snorted, then pressed himself into the mage, slowly but powerfully. Anders braced himself against the bar and, although it seemed not possible, spread his legs a bit further. The kind tongue had eased the entry and it wasn't until the first firm thrust that Anders screamed, despite the euphoric anesthesia of the Qunari potion. The movement did not hesitate for even a moment to acknowledge his distress, but continued in a steady rhythm, each withdrawal holding a threat and a promise of a deeper plunge to follow.

The movement forced on his body alternately tightened and loosened the ropes, pulling on his cock and balls, threatening to strangle him at times, tightening against the tender pattern that marked his skin, and making of his sensations a symphony. The pleasure and the pain melded into something beyond both, beyond the realm of normal human senses. He had just enough awareness to wonder as he felt the ring enter, if this would be the end of him. He had a vision of Fenris gloating over his mangled and abused body and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The Arishok felt the resistance of the ring and gathered himself, pushing back against the mage's loins to gain a moment. He was Arishok, he could do this thing, show strength in discipline and denial. With renewed resolve, he shoved hard, but not past, or at least not too far past, his self imposed limit. It was difficult, but in the challenge was pleasure, rather like facing a worthy opponent on the field of battle. His rhythm became a steady acceleration, each thrust faster and harder, but not deeper. The two bodies rocked, bound together in lust and need, the mage barely conscious and the Qunari acutely aware, maintaining his precious control.

As the moment approached, the Arishok grasped the key thread firmly in hand. Then he was taken, bellowing like a bull to the mage's feline scream.

Anders felt as if liquid fire had been poured into him, shooting through his body with great force. He was vaguely aware of his own ejaculation, but the release was of much more than just his cock's fluid. Every part of his body, external and internal, was ablaze and waves of ecstasy thrummed through him. He screamed his triumph and defiance, expending the very last of his resources, his magic released from its tight control. Justice joined with him in truth as his body flickered with blue light. The magic, having slipped its fetters, rolled over the mage and crashed into the Arishok who froze, then growled, then howled, releasing his own carefully cultivated control.

At the last moment, as he was prepared to thrust home, the Qunari's massive discipline reasserted itself and he pushed away instead, just enough, just enough. As the last shuddering spurt left his cock, he pulled the thread and, reaching down, flicked up the bar the mage had been holding in his cramped hands. That key thread allowed every binding to unravel, releasing the human who, his strings cut, collapsed, moaning softly.

Catching himself on his arms, the Arishok threw his body down beside the smaller human figure curled around itself. He stroked the mage, murmuring comforting words. He then reached out for the large basin of lesmatk that had been placed carefully on the nearest table. Holding the lipped bowl above them, he slowly poured the contents across their bodies, bathing them both in the restoring liquid. As the last drop fell and the container crashed to the floor, the Arishok's eyes closed and his breathing became deep and regular.


	8. Chapter 8

It was the vibration that first brought him to consciousness. A deep thrumming that settled in his bones. As he awakened further, Anders realized that there was sound to accompany the vibration. Qunari words sung in a low, but melodic, bass voice. Sleepy and content, the residue of the emrus-din still singing in his veins, he concentrated on the meaning of the words he was hearing.

It was a tale of spring meadows bedazzled by flowers, dark forests cloaked in viridian moss, storm tossed seas arrayed in foamy whiteness, and lost love. Yesterday, to hear such a tune in the Qunari language would have surprised him, but no more.

As he became aware of his surroundings, he found that he was cradled in the Arishok's arm, his head resting on the massive chest that was reverberating with its song. He could feel every part of the pattern tracing his body, but it had faded from pain to a delicious sensitivity. The contrast between the decorated areas and those left bare made every small movement stimulating.

He had awakened stiff, as often happened, and idly stroked himself as he listened. As the song wound its way through the last refrain, he heard a chuckle and strained his neck to look up at the Qunari who was watching his self ministrations with amusement.

"Little mage," the giant rumbled, "you were better than expected. You have earned your recipe. May the death it brings be satisfying to you."

At these words, Anders stopped what he was doing and turned over, climbing up a bit onto the Arishok's chest and supporting himself on his folded arms so that he could look into those foreign eyes.

His brows lowered in thought, the mage replied, "I hope that I won't have to use it. That there will be no deaths. I only wish to be prepared."

The giant laughed more heartily at this, wiped his mouth, then said, "Surely you cannot be so naive. Gaatlok brings death. It is its only reason for being. It is not possible that you will have the recipe and not use it for destruction. Are you sure that this is what you want, or would you prefer some other reward?"

Justice had been passive since the previous night; perhaps its was the expenditure of all of his magic in that last glorious climax. In any case, Anders felt more at peace than he hand in many months. Did he really want to do this? To have in place the means for mass destruction? Was it the right course? Would the result be better than the status quo? He was musing over these questions when he felt a stab of blue white energy course through him, stiffing his body and his resolve. Yes. Yes, he needed to follow his plans. The gaatlok would only be used if there was no other way to initiate change, but it must be in place.

The Arishok, watching with interest, shook his head sadly. He liked this fey human, but it was obvious that he was possessed. If he submitted to the Qun, he would be slain in the next moment, for a being so out of balance was an offense to order. But the mage was not Qunari and seemed to seek only the destruction of his own kind. And he had been true to his bargain.

"Very well," the Arishok sadly capitulated. "I can see that this, your demon must have, if not you. Listen and I will tell you. There are only the three ingredients, not difficult to obtain. You do realize that you are bound to utmost secrecy. You must tell no one, ever, of this formula. You do not want to know the punishment for breaking your word."

Somewhat numbly, Anders nodded. It didn't really matter what the punishment was, since he would not break his word, to the Arishok or to Justice.

The Qunari began his recitation, his eyes on the ceiling. "Sala petre is the main ingredient. It will make up three quarters of your mixture. You understand that it is common. It is found in well aged waste as a crystal. Cellar walls, or especially those of sewers, are where you must search.

"The second ingredient is simple charcoal. This you want to be a bit more than half of the quarter left. It should be close to three of five parts of that quarter of the total. That is for propelling purposes. If you wish a more explosive mixture, use half and half of the second and third, but always only one quarter of the total for the two combined.

"The third is the most difficult to obtain. Drakestone is a yellow substance, not really stone, but rather also a crystal. It is found where dragons dwell, usually adhering to the wall or floor of caverns. You will know it by its bright yellow color and crystalline structure.

"These three ingredients you will grind into a fine powder and there you have gaatlok. But one other thing you must understand, in itself it is not explosive. Come, I will demonstrate."

Anders climbed over the Qunari and stood waiting. The Arishok rose, shaking his bulk like a giant dog, and pulled a small leather pouch from the game table. He poured a mound of black power onto the table, then, taking a spill from the mantle, lit it from the lamp. He held the flame to the powder which spit and burned with a great deal of acrid dark grey smoke.

"You see," he said to the waiting mage. "No explosion. The powder must be confined. It then expands and blows apart whatever it was confined within. In this way it may propel a projectile or destroy surrounding structures. I shall demonstrate."

So saying, he pulled from a cabinet a small box made of thick rigid paper. This box he packed tightly with the powder, showing Anders that it was filled, then added a bit of cotton frayed from a rope to make it even tighter. Closing and securing the box, he left a trail of power following a string which he threaded through a small hole.

"Now you will stand back," he instructed as he lit the crude fuse and joined Anders at the far side of the room. As the fuse burned down, there was a deafening sound and the box disintegrated, sending bits of burning paper throughout the room. These were quickly extinguished by a large Qunari foot.

Looking at the stunned Anders, the Arishok said, "It will blow apart anything that is confining it; wood, pottery, even metal. It is there that the destructive power lies. If you want to send a projectile forth, you use a tube with only one opening and pack that opening with rope fray or some other soft material. The explosion will then send anything sitting on the powder in that direction. For a more general explosion, you have just seen the method."

Thoughtfully, the mage said, "I understand. Please, allow me to repeat the formula to you." He did so, to the Arishok's approval.

The Qunari then said. "You must go. The day is well underway. I shall miss what we had, little mage, but if you wish to continue our discussions, I would be pleased."

Hearing this, Anders realized that he had been dreaming all morning of returning for more pleasures like those they had shared last night. He was confused. Had not the Arishok just said that he was pleased by the mage? Thinking back over the night, Anders was aware that he was as addicted as ever Fenris could be. There was nothing in his life that compared with what he had experienced at the hands and cock and oh, that tongue, of the Arishok. He had simply assumed that there would be many many more nights.

Searching for the right words, he asked, "But don't you want to, um, do the things we did together? Was it not pleasing to you?"

Smiling sadly, the Qunari explained, "I see that the elf deceived you in many ways, or at least neglected important parts of your education. Darthas-Dus is for one night only. Nothing that was done in that time can be repeated. It is the way of the Qun." At Anders devastated expression, the Arishok stepped forward and took the mage gently in his arms, whispering, "And consider. Is it not better this way? Is there anything that we could do together that could compare with last night? This is the wisdom of the Qun, which binds me."

Mustering his arguments, though he knew them hopeless, Anders replied, trying to keep the whine out of his voice, "But what of Darthas-Dun? Surely it is much the same? And then it is for life, so there must be many many nights, not just the one? Am I right?"

Stroking the mage's hair, the Arishok said, "If it were Darthas-Dun, things would be handled differently, each night building to the next and the next. For Darthas-Dus all is given and all is received within the confines of the one night. It is much like the gaatlok, passion contained and set alight to explode in that one glorious outpouring. But like the gaatlok, Darthas-Dus blows itself apart. There is nothing left of that sort between us. I am sorry, I too will think fondly of our time together, but so it is and so it shall be."

In shock, Anders donned his clothes and left, turning only at the door to say, "Thank you for the recipe. And…" As he tried to continue, to thank the Qunari for everything else, he felt his voice break and his eyes tear. He fled down the hall instead, running through the compound to knowing stares.

Outside the gates, he paused to regain control of himself. He could still feel the effects of the emrus-din, and everything, the sandstone buildings, the people, the canopies over shops, looked brighter and more colorful then normal. He made his way to Lowtown, stopping at a haberdashery to buy a pair of soft black calfskin gloves to cover the brilliant red marks on his hands. The merchant knew the mage well, for he had a large family and little money, and Anders had treated many of his children in the Darktown clinic. Seeing the marks, he started to ask a question, but recoiled a an uncharacteristic growl from the gentle man.

Anders needed a drink… badly. He wondered if he could risk the Hanged Man—this early in the day it was possible that no one he knew would be there—but settled on lonely imbibing back at the clinic, which he was determined would remain closed at least for the rest of the day. He needed time to think, to consider the gaatlock and its uses and to reconcile to himself what had happened with the Arishok.


	9. Chapter 9

As he removed the wards guarding the doors of the clinic, Anders realized how exhausted he was. Not only exhausted, but heartsick. He wanted more, felt that he must have more, and knew that what he needed would be denied. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to continue the evening discussions with the Arishok. A part of him longed to be there, to just be in the Qunari's presence, but another knew that it would be a torment worse that anything done to his body last night.

As he slipped through the door, glad that no one had been waiting for his services, a shadow followed. He heard the slight movement, too furtive to be a patient, and thought: Templar? Thief? Assassin? It is all the same. He simply did not have the will to care, let alone fight.

He turned wearily, then bellowed, "YOU! Of all people I expected to see here, you would be the last. Did you come to mock or to receive the vengeance due you?"

Fenris leaned casually against the doorframe, smirking. He was quiet for some time, enjoying watching Anders stew, then said, "I was not sure you would be back, ever, but it seemed worth a vigil in case. I wanted to see how you looked after your ordeal. I see that you survived."

Anders could feel his hands at his sides, opening and closing in fists, and his breathing became rapid and deep. He searched for Justice within him, but found only a cold wall. It seemed that the spirit was unwilling to aid in this dispute. His hatred evident in every word, the said slowly, "You planned everything, didn't you? You knew exactly what you were doing. You would have sold me as a slave to the Qunari for your own pleasure." He thought of asking why, but that he knew the answer and knew that it was his own behavior that had stoked the elf's wrath against all mages to the point of revenge on a particular mage.

Fenris stretched his neck and tipped his head to the side, considering, then said, "Yes."

Enraged further, Anders stalked the clinic, knocking over tables and kicking walls. He whirled when he was some distance away and snarled, "I should kill you now. Just rid the world of you. It would be an act of kindness to those left to have you gone."

The elf smiled, still relaxed, and said, "You could try. It would be an interesting duel. I am not sure myself who would prevail, but you would not be unscathed, that I know. But consider, you now have the gaatlok…" Ander stopped dead and goggled at his adversary. "…ah yes, I know what you wanted, why you wanted to learn about the Qunari. It was not to play games with the Arishok, or at least not only for that. Really, whatever you may think of me, that stupid I am not.

"Tell me, are you going to get Hawke to help you find the drakestone?"

Again the mage was taken up short. He stammered, "You know. You know the recipe. You could have given it to me at any time."

Fenris nodded casually. "Yes. I know. All of the ingredients, all of the proportions. How it is best used for various purposes. And I have a very good idea of the sort of uses you would put it to. You should know, however, that I have made a very specific and very revealing document and entrusted it to someone who will only open it on my death. It goes into great detail about your crimes and potential crimes, including that you own the means to cause great destruction. I suggest that not only do you give up any plans you may be harboring to kill me now, but that you also take very good care of me in battle. It would be a shame if I died by misadventure. Well, a shame for you, but a great boon for the Templars and the Chantry. I am sure that Meredith would be thrilled."

Feeling as he did last night when his bindings were released, Anders dropped straight to the floor, his head in his hands, and began rocking. He struggled for control, but low moans issued from his mouth. Fenris closed and bolted the door, then strolled to where the liquor was kept and poured himself a large glass of the mage's best cognac, then sat down to wait.

He had refilled his glass before Anders crawled painfully to his feet. The mage staggered to the sideboard, grabbing the bottle and upending it over his mouth. His adam's apple moved up and down three times before he lowered the decanter, happy to feel the fiery liquid burn through him. He fell into a chair facing the elf, his face haggard. He seemed to have aged many years in the last few minutes, the lines between his brows deeper, his jaw less firm, his eyes mournful.

Hopelessly, he asked, "What do you want."

Leaning on his arms so looked more closely into Anders' eyes, Fenris said, "What I have always wanted. What you could have freely given. The _only_ thing that I want from you. But now I shall have it, whenever I want, an on my terms.

"I shall have no more distasteful sucking and licking, no more of your taunting, and no more playing teacher to your deceitful self. But I _shall_ have your touch, exactly as I specify. And if you do not perform as I require, I shall have your regrets. Do you understand me?"

Anders nodded, only to be chided, "Speak! You will answer me properly."

Taking a deep breath, the mage said, "Yes, I understand," thinking that he had escaped one slavery only to fall into another much less to his liking. True he would still be able to maintain his clinic, perhaps even carry out some of his plans, or at least he hoped so, but life with the Qunari was suddenly looking like a very attractive option. Ah, but his options were gone. He had been sold as surely as any Tevinter elf.

Fenris sat quietly, enjoying the brandy and starting into space. When he had finished his glass, he carefully sat it down and said, "Up. Remove your clothes. I will not touch you, but I would have you know that and be naked before me."

Anders looked at him, thinking of the pattern on every part of his body, and said, "No."

"Very well," the elf replied, standing and walking toward the door.

He had not taken three steps when the shout came, as he knew it would. "Stop!" Anders cried, the tone between command and entreaty. Fenris turned slowly and looked down at the mage, one eyebrow raised.

"You know you have me," Anders all but whimpered.

"Yes. Yes, I 'have you' as you say. I am only surprised that you would balk at so small a thing. It is not as if there is anything I have not seen… or is there?"

Anders winced, pulling off one of his new gloves and holding up the hand, turning it for the elf to see. Fenris almost fell down he was laughing so hard. When he could speak, he asked, "Your whole body?" Anders nodded. "Everywhere?" Another nodded. This set the elf to another, louder, bout of laughter. Struggling to talk, he said, "Oh yes, this I must see. Disrobe. Slowly please, I would, humm, enjoy this for as long as possible."

Anders wished that his spells could be self directed—immolation was sounding very good at the moment. Justice was still in hiding and he could think of no way to postpone, so he stood and removed the other glove, throwing it on the floor.

He sat and pulled off the heavy boots then let his head hang between his legs for a moment. He would have sat that way longer, but Fenris cleared his throat in aggravation, so he stood barefoot and worked the clasp of his robe. The elf had seated himself with another glass of brandy. He held up a hand, saying, "Get me something to eat. The best of whatever you have, but be quick about it."

There was some fine cheese, imported from Orlais, that he'd been saving and bread only a day old. Some honey and a last bit of elderberry jam that had been a gift from a patient. And, he hated to think of it, but Fenris knew it was there and he needed whatever good will he could get from the elf, his secret store of chocolate. It was a small and private sin, the only thing that he really spent money on for himself and himself alone. Now it would be offered to Fenris as a sacrifice.

The elf smiled when the meal was presented, and Anders allowed himself a tiny sigh. "Continue," Fenris demanded.

The robe came open across the mage's broad chest, revealing the extent of the markings. Despite himself, Fenris stood to touch the broad areas of red. "They are real," he said with some awe. "I thought he had only dyed you. But these, they are the result of culm-thest. And you endured this?"

"Apparently," Anders returned. "You see them before you."

Looking pensive, the elf mused, "The Arishok likes you more than I thought. I knew that he would not accept Darthas-Dun from you, even if it is supposedly not to be denied, but he is Arishok and has leeway, but to engage in Darthas-Dus. This is the result of Darthas-Dus, is it not?"

"Yes, Darthas-Dus," Anders replied.

Fenris looked at him steadily, then said, "That gaatlok means a great deal to you."

Anders said nothing, but let his hand move to the buckle of his belt. He dropped the heavy strip of leather to the floor and shrugged out of the robe, thinking, to hell with the elf and his striptease. He stood naked and listless, awaiting the next command.


	10. Chapter 10

[As usual from me, very mature. If you are under 18 or easily offended, or offended at all, by almost anything, please go find yourself a nice little story that will make you happy. For the rest of your intrepid souls, read on…]

"You are a pitiful thing," the elf remarked as he examined the exhausted mage drooping before him. "I really am surprised that the Arishok would bother, but I suppose there is no accounting for taste, as the old saw goes. Your magic, it is intact?"

Anders looked up angrily. "Why do you care what the rest of me is? Yes, the magic still works, more's the pity. It would please me to tell you that your plan backfired, that I can no longer do that which you crave, but it is not the case." To demonstrate, he threw a small fireball that scorched the wall.

"Uh uh, no more of that," the elf scolded. "Remember, if you will, that this hold I have over you is absolute. At this point I intend to use it only for my pleasure, since I am more compassionate than you, but push me or displease me and you may find your life unpleasant in subtle and creative ways. How much do you think Varric would pay for a detailed description of your most intimate anatomy? I'm sure he would find it useful for spicing up his stories, at least for comic relief. Or I could sell you to Isabella, she's had eyes for you for some time. Or better yet, just take you to the Blooming Rose and rent you out. I have been eying a case of particularly costly Antivan brandy. I think, even with your meager talents, a few nights in the Rose just might make the tariff."

Staring in stark horror, Anders considered what he had just heard. He had not thought of the implications of Fenris hold over him beyond the obvious—but it was true that a lever was a lever and could have many uses. If it had not been for his mission, the belief that he was the one who could save the mages from virtual slavery, he would have walked down to the docks and continued walking out to sea. And he didn't have the drakestone yet, wasn't sure he could convince Hawke to help him get it. Before, even with Justice inhabiting his mind and body, life had seemed a grand adventure, now it would be something to be endured. He wondered if the elf would take every pleasure from him, then realized that that was the least of his worries—to be denied pleasure, yes, that would be bad, but the humiliation and pain that might replace it could be much worse.

While he gave the mage time to ponder his fate, Fenris lay back, consuming Anders' chocolate and brandy. He ignored the cheese and other offerings. Later he would wrap them and take them with him, preferably in the mage's best scarf.

Fenris was surprised to find, now that he had Anders' at his fingertips, his need was much less urgent. Oh, he would require and receive release today, but there was none of the desperation that had been there when he was the supplicant. He was getting almost as much pleasure from contemplating the many ways that he might torment the mage as he was from envisaging his own satisfaction.

Anders still needed that drink, more than he had before, and there lay the arrogant elf, consuming his best cognac as if it were Denerim plonk. He hated to ask for anything, but if he didn't have the alcohol to steady his nerves, he was afraid that he might make an error that the elf would punish via one of his threats, or worse. Steeling himself, he said in a calm voice, "Fenris, may I have a glass of brandy before we begin?"

Ah, the elf thought, the first entreaty. How lovely. He was beginning to see the advantages of owning a slave, not one who was born or sold into that state, but one who absolutely had earned his fate through his own actions. And Fenris knew exactly how a slave should be treated.

Swirling the amber liquid and holding it to the light, he watched the mage's avid eyes. He held out the glass, and when Anders reached for it, poured it deliberately onto the tile floor where it pooled, bits of soot and dirt floating to the surface. "Yours if you want it," the elf said, pouring himself another glass.

Anders closed his eyes and tried to will himself dead, hoping that he would never be reduced to lapping up Fenris' leavings, but knowing that it could all too easily come to that.

"Ah, not so thirsty as you thought?" the elf mocked. "I could order you to drink it, you know? And you would, wouldn't you?" He paused and waited for the reluctant nod. "But not just now. Something to contemplate for the future, hummm?

"Now, I think I would like to see what you do with that thing between your legs when you're laying in your lonely bed dreaming of me." The mage's eyes narrowed, hoping he was not being asked to do what he thought he was being asked to do. The elf continued, "Don't be coy. You know exactly what I mean. Take yourself in hand and show me your technique. Certainly forcing unwilling elves to do unpleasant things can't be the only way you find relief. There must be times when you are reduced to your own devices. It is those devices I would now have demonstrated. Please, proceed."

Fenris took another bite of chocolate and a sip of cognac while he waited, enjoying the discomfort of the naked mage. Anders' hand slowly crept towards his crotch, but could not seem to complete the journey. Finally he said, "I can't."

"You will," was the elf's reply.

Anders let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Perhaps his imagination would save him, but then he heard the command, "Eyes open and looking at me." Oh Maker, every small concession was taken from him. If he had not been so exhausted he might have found the will to resist, but then he realized the foolishness of that notion. There would be no sanctuary for him now.

He stared at the elf, hoping that his hatred would enflame him. He sought for Justice and cursed the cowardly spirit—of all times he could use a little oblivion, it was now. His hand moved round and cupped his balls and he thought he would faint from the humiliation as a slow smile spread over the damnable elf's lips. Calling on his anger, not knowing if he preferred that to become aroused or stay limp, he let his hand move to his flaccid cock, rolling and stoking, moving the foreskin up and back. The familiar, comforting gestures started to have their age old effect and he felt the first stirrings, the very nascent stiffening, and found that he was glad for that. Better to show his prowess than to be seen to be impotent before Fenris' icy gaze.

As he stiffened and his grip become tighter, his movements more brisk, he started to pant lightly. He was amused to see the elf shift uncomfortably, stroking the lyrium burn on his arm as if he could find his own release, and realized his superiority. Anders could, any time he had the desire and a bit of privacy, find his own satisfaction, but that was, apparently, something always to be denied to Fenris. It was a small consolation, but it gave impetus to his current activity. With a slight smirk he began to stroke himself with more purpose, pausing to thumb the head and let his fingers ripple over the shaft. He was very close to climax, his cock swelling even more in his hand, slick with his fluids, when Fenris said, "Enough."

The command was so shocking, so unexpected, that he did pause. When he began to jerk his hand up again, the elf said in a low growl, "Unhand yourself now, this instant, or there will be consequences." Fenris voice was intimidating always, but now it carried a special menace. Anders found his hand flying away, to be held out as if he were demonstrating that he held no weapon. He was so close to orgasm that it was positively painful to stop. His breath came in little sobs and his eyes were glazed with need.

"Yes," Fenris said. "Now you understand a little, but only a little, of what it is to be me." He rose gracefully and strode up to the mage, pulling his head down roughly by the hair. Careful to not touch the engorged cock, knowing that the lightest pressure would set it off, he growled, "You will control yourself. You will not come. That is your first lesson. Do you understand?" Anders nodded and Fenris pulled his head down further until their lips met. The mage struggled briefly, then realized that this would only anger the elf who was poking at him with an imperious tongue. Reluctantly, praying for control, he opened his mouth. It did not matter that it was his most hated enemy, the sensations were still those that his body recognized as the elf's long tongue explored, and Anders sunk his nails into the tender skin of his belly, drawing blood, as he fought to restrain himself.

Shoving the mage back, Fenris looked down to see that the cock was still hard and pulsing with need. He smiled tightly and went to retrieve and refill the brandy snifter, bringing it to Anders and holding it for the mage to have a sip.


	11. Chapter 11

**[For Gone-Batty, who has inspired my Fenders in so many ways…]**

Anders had never been so grateful for a drink. It was only a small sip, but seemed to sooth every part of him. When the glass was pulled away he looked imploringly at the elf and was surprised when Fenris relented. The snifter was brought back to his mouth and he was permitted to drain the contents. Throughout he had kept his hands by his sides, afraid to make any move that would anger his tormentor.

The elf looked at the empty crystal goblet and casually threw it over his shoulder to shatter on the tiles, pleased when he heard Anders groan. He knew from bitter experience that the way to break a slave were small kindnesses followed by small cruelties. It was not beatings that would wear away the spirit, they were easily tolerated, if highly unpleasant, it was hope and hope dashed that would finally destroy the will.

His back still turned, Fenris began removing his clothing as he said, "Clean that up before you cut your delicate toes." He quickly undressed and almost fell over laughing when he turned. Anders was sweeping diligently, a broom in one hand, a dust pan in the other, and a blue gingham apron covering his nakedness. At the elf's laughter, he looked up and blushed an appealing pink, stammering, "It was on the broom. I always wear it when cleaning, just an automatic habit."

Still bent over and sniggering, Fenris said, "It's lovely. Keep it on, I think it will add a certain piquancy to our activities." Walking to where the mage now stood, loaded dustpan in hand, the elf reached out to check for the erection he hoped was still there. Of course if it was not, if the mage had used Fenris' moment of inattention, then there would be a price, which would be lovely too. The elf was starting to realize that for the first time he could remember, whatever happened was to his advantage.

The mage was still hard and gritted his teeth at the touch, not knowing if he was yet allowed release. Fenris slapped the shape behind the colorful fabric and said, "Good boy. Keep it just that way.

"Now, that last time, you did something interesting. I expect you were experimenting. I like experimentation, but this time I will direct you until I am no longer able. You will then continue in whatever way you think will please me most. I hope, for your sake, that you guess correctly.

Anders waited passively as Fenris considered, then said, "Start with the chest and the knee, making your hands meet wherever they come together."

Summoning his magic, Anders touched the two spots specified, then almost straightened when he felt a hand run up his now exposed ass. It was something the elf had never done before, but their relationship was somewhat different now. As the lyrium began to glow that deep, almost midnight, blue, he heard Fenris spit and a thumb was pushed into him. Anders liked both men and women, but only as a man. He had never allowed anyone to penetrate him and at the feel of that alien appendage in his body, he leapt away, covering his buttocks with both hands and scrambling to a corner.

Fenris laughed with dark delight. "Ah, lovely," he said. "Something that you object to. Well that will add to the fun. You know that hiding in a corner will just not do, but this time only, I will forgive you. Now come, we were only beginning."

Anders, his hands still on his wounded pride, contemplated his options: return to the elf or be made Tranquil by the Templars. Tranquility was having a certain appeal, but he was not quite yet ready to abandon his life, no matter how sordid it had become.

Stretching out an elegant hand, Fenris beckoned with one long thin finger. Clutching his apron, the mage rose to face the inevitable. He shuffled towards the elf, his head down and his hands fretfully working the fabric. Fenris pulled him closer, tipped up his head and placed his mouth on the lips pulled into a grim line, licking rather than kissing, and then shoving the mage away roughly, only to catch him by the hand and jerk him back in a savage parody of a dance. He gathered up the neckline of the apron so that he was half choking Anders, and snarled, "You really do want to lean to behave. When I call you, you come. When I place my mouth beside yours, you open, when I tell you to present yourself to me, you do so, without hesitation. Is that understood."

The mage considered until his ruminations were cut short by a hard slap. "Immediately!" the elf raged. "That means your answers as well." Anders put a hand to his stinging cheek and contemplated murder. If he had thought he had any chance at all to get away with it, there would have been a dead elf in his clinic now rather than the grimacing, but all too alive, fiend who faced him. "You have approximately one second." Fenris reminded.

Still rubbing his jaw, the mage replied, "I understand."

"Elaborate," the elf demanded.

"I will obey you, quickly, completely, to the best of my ability. Whatever you say, I will immediately do. I put myself and my talents at your disposal," he thought for a moment. If he were going to be forced to say all this, he wanted as much benefit as he might be able to get from it. "I will leave myself open to you."

Fenris nodded, saying, "We shall proceed where we left off, and this time I expect no girlish coyness. I shall insert any part of my body, or anything else that takes my fancy, into any orifice you possess any time I wish. And at times, if I am displeased, I may choose to not use an orifice, or at least not one that you now possess, so contemplate that the next time you are feeling rebellious."

As the cursed elf was nattering on, Anders had approached him and placed his hands, once again bending to reach the knee. He hoped that at least this might shut Fenris up. He was surprised when no hand came to tease him, or worse.

As he poured magic into the laces of lyrium they again began glowing a deep purple. Fenris, his breathing already quickened, said, "Right hand up, let it run up the vein. Yes, that's right… a bit higher." Anders' hand was now cupping one firm buttock, his thumb stroking a tendril of the marking while his palm sat over a fat strip. He noticed a strange sensation as he increased his magical output and watched the pattern start to pulse aquamarine; he was enjoying the contact, enjoying watching the elf. Before the ritual had been done for Anders benefit—as a bribe and to gain his own release, but now denied that earlier opportunity to relieve his own tension, hard and needy, he felt more than a small stirring of pleasure as his cock quivered, thumping against his bare stomach.

Despite his own rapture, the reaction had not been lost on Fenris. He let his head fall back and mused. Did he wish to allow the mage this pleasure in an act that should be all for himself? And if he did not, what would be the best action to prevent it? He certainly was not going to satisfy Anders before they began as he had when he was the supplicant. He looked down at the telltale movement against the gay fabric and allowed himself a small smile. It was just possible that if the mage found that he too benefited from the act, that it would be better for Fenris as well, which was all that he ultimately cared about. If allowing Anders a bit of enjoyment was the price for a more ecstatic orgasm, he was wiling to be generous. On the other hand, if things were the same as they had been before, he would find a way to prevent this small defiance.

Anders had his eyes closed, the corners of his lips turning up. His breathing was deep and regular as he waited for Fenris' next instruction.

"Up, between the breastbone and the other hand on the back of my neck," the elf ordered. He suspected that this would set up a circuit between his heart and the nerves of his spinal column, and he gasped as he realized just how true that was. Anders was all but gushing magic into him now and the colors quickly went from blue to green to yellow, the light blinding if anyone had been there to see.

Breathing heavily, having lost his calm rhythm, Anders increased the power even more. He was draining himself beyond any sane limit, but he didn't care—the sensations now coursing through not only his painfully rigid cock, but his whole body were like nothing he had ever imagined. He seemed to be in tune with the elf's body, working it from yellow to orange, then holding there, allowing the intensity to build, hearing Fenris' panting as he struggled for breath. It was more intimate than any coupling he had ever had, with man or woman. Although their bodies were not joined, their energies, their very life essence, had merged. If life were what made a being itself, there was now only one being, one life, in that dim clinic.

Anders struggled, waging a mighty battle for control, but finally it was lost and a great surge of energy, every bit of magic left in his shrinking reserves, flowed from him into the lyrium tracings and then back. Some small part of him that had maintained the ability to reason realized that instead of diminishing, his magic was increasing as it passed through the lyrium in the elf's body and returned to him. He suddenly had more magic and his disposal than he had ever felt before and he poured it all back into Fenris' thin frame. The elf was now glowing a fiery crimson pulsing with scarlet.

The circuit continued to pass power from one body to another as both their temperatures increased, the feelings beyond pleasure or pain. It was then that Anders' training asserted itself and he realized that he must disengage or perish. He slowly moved his hands away, watching as the energy pulsed in the space between them and the elf. That seemed to be all that was required. With a great feral scream, Fenris' came, reaching out and wrapping his hand around Anders' stiff rod, smothering it with the checked fabric. The touch was enough and Anders felt himself explode as well, staining the apron, as he struggled within Fenris' firm grip.

He staggered for a moment, then collapsed as if his bones had melted along with his lust and his will. He felt a thump as the elf fell on top of him, but could not even raise a hand to push him off. There was simply nothing left of Anders physically, but still he felt the expanded store of magic coursing through is limp form. As he lay there helpless he was already desperate for more. He realized that he would do anything to repeat what he had just experienced. It was better than any drug, any sex, any experience he had ever had by so many orders of magnitude that there simply was no measure of it. What would he do if Fenris now withheld himself, out of cruelty of spite? He felt terror. He was helpless and absolutely within the elf's thrall, more so than a simple threat of death or Tranquility could ever make him.


End file.
